“Did you know them?” a whisper brushes by me.
“I’m not walking home alone tonight,” someone else says.
“They caught someone, right? They had to have by now.”
Same questions, same hollow answer—silence. The current of whispered worry tangles around my shoulders like static.
My book bag thumps against my hip with each step I take as I climb the concrete steps to my lecture hall. At the landing, I pause, gaze sweeping across the quad—half expecting to catch someone staring. I can’t stop the thoughts that come. What if he’s here? Hidden among the sea of students, watching me or looking for his next prey.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I push it out before it can take root and force myself forward. The heavy metal door groans as I tug it open, swallowing me into the shadow of Room 204.
The dimly lit room slopes downward in half-moons of fold-out desks, rows that climb like bleachers. Usually, this space hums with sound—gossip traded across aisles, friends shouting greetings, the crinkle of snack wrappers, and the clatter of iced coffees set down too hard. Today, it’s hushed. Barely half the seats are filled, and even those who came look unsettled, their pens scratching without focus, their eyes sliding often to the doorways and corners of the room.
The low murmur of conversation bounces faintly off the whiteboard at the front. A few students tap on laptops, their faces lit in cool glow, but their eyes don’t linger on the screens for long—they flick toward the doors, the aisles, the backs of the room, like prey waiting for a shadow to shift.
I slide into my usual seat midway down. Marlena is already there, her face pale, shadows bruised under her eyes. She forces a small smile, the corners of her mouth twitching up without conviction. Her hand brushes mine under the desk, the minute I pull it down over my lap, fleeting but firm—one squeeze, a wordless reminder that she’s here, that we’re still here.
Austin sits on her other side, posture slouched but gaze sharp. His usual lazy grin is absent, replaced by somethingquieter, more intent. None of us says anything at first. We don’t need to. The silence speaks enough.
When Professor Henley walks in, the room seems to shift. His stride is steady, composed, not a hair out of place. His slacks are pressed, his shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that suggest ease without effort.
He sets his messenger bag on the desk, arranges his papers into neat stacks, and finally looks up. His gaze sweeps the room once—calm, unreadable—before it settles. On me. Just for a second. Long enough to stir the prickling heat across the back of my neck.
“Good morning,” he begins, voice calm and evenly pitched. It carries easily without strain, yet is deep enough to demand focus without needing to be loud. “I realize the past week has been… difficult for many of you. Three lives lost in such a short span—classmates, friends, members of this community. That weight is not something I overlook.” He pauses, allowing the silence to thicken, then continues, his tone softening just slightly. “Please remember there are resources available to you—counselors, peer support, and my office hours if you need them.”
The silence afterward is heavy. A few students shift uncomfortably, and someone coughs near the back, but no one speaks.
Then, with a click of his mouse, the projector flickers to life, splashing pale light against the screen, and his voice falls back into lecture mode, smooth and steady, the rhythm of normalcy.
Except it isn’t.
The seconds stretch until Henley’s words blur together, bleeding into a low hum that doesn’t quite touch me. My pen scratches nonsense patterns into the margin of my notebook, shapes looping and curling without meaning. My body is in this chair, but my mind is outside—back in the quad, in the heavy air,under the glare of watchful eyes. Waiting for a shadow to break away from the corner and move toward me.
When dismissal finally comes, it’s like a valve releasing. Chairs clatter as they snap back upright, bags zip open and closed, the sound sharp and chaotic after an hour of forced stillness. Conversations ignite instantly, buzzing and fractured, spilling into the aisles and swelling into a static hum that follows us out the door.
Marlena falls into step beside me without a word, her presence steady but taut, and Austin lopes up on her other side, his easy grin muted by the weight that hasn’t left the air in days. The three of us move with the tide of bodies through the narrow hallway, the crush of shoulders and backpacks pressing until we finally spill out into the open quad.
The sunlight outside is brutal, bouncing off red brick walkways and the pale sandstone buildings that frame the courtyard. Heat radiates upwards in shimmering waves off the pavement, making me already regret my all black attire. Marlena threads her fingers through mine and Austin’s, holding us tight like we’re kids again playing safety-in-numbers—even though we all know that hand-holding won’t stop anything.
We cut across the quad, weaving through clusters of officers in uniform and the booths that have sprouted up since the start of class. Student organizations have lined the walkway, their folding tables covered in neat stacks of flyers, banners fluttering weakly in the breeze. Some hand out slips for tutoring sessions and study groups, others advertise hiking trips, art clubs, or trivia nights at the union. A few try to pass out candy with their pamphlets, bright smiles plastered on their faces, but even those smiles don’t quite hold. The entire effort feels forced, thin, and hollow, like stage dressing slapped over a crumbling set.
Still, I can’t blame them. Maybe that’s what people need—something to look at that isn’t fear.
We stop at the stone bench tucked beneath the arch that frames the path to the Student Union. Marlena sits between Austin and me, her posture squared and firm, but her grip tight, fingers digging into mine like she’s afraid I’ll slip away into the tide of bodies. She turns to me, her voice soft, curious in a way that makes me pause.
“How are you doing, Rae? How are things with that cop?”
Her voice is gentle, almost teasing, but the question lands heavier than it should. She doesn’t know about the card. Or the note. She doesn’t know most of it. Only Tessa and Emilio do. I’ve kept the rest locked down, tucked into the shadows of my chest where the weight sits constant. But the weight of her gaze tugs the words loose anyway.
I manage a small laugh, thin but real. “Things with Emilio are good. Great, actually.” A flicker of heat creeps into my cheeks. “The sex is amazing.” Marlena snorts softly, shaking her head, but I press on, quieter now. “But… he’s worried I’m being targeted.”
Her expression sharpens, confusion flashing across her face. “Why would he think that?”
I let out a breath and lean forward, elbows braced against my knees. My gaze shifts down toward the gravel underfoot, and I nudge a piece with the toe of my boot. I’m hesitant, like rolling gravel or not looking at her, won’t push her to keep asking.
So I give in and kick the gravel piece away before bringing my eyes to hers. “Because of this card I found on my doorstep a few weeks ago that I thought was some kind of prank, and this note Emilio found at Bailey and Liam’s murder scene… they’re written in the same handwriting.”
The smirk fades from her face entirely, replaced by something brittle. “Rae… are you being threatened?”
